


What's Mine By Right

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Torture, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-14
Updated: 2005-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Horseman years, Methos stands by and watches while Kronos performs unspeakable acts on other people.  It bothers Methos not because of the acts, but because taking those things from Kronos should be Methos's right, not someone else's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Mine By Right

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story contains torture (not of Methos or Kronos), rape (not of Methos or Kronos) and death (not of Methos or Kronos). It is very, very violent.

Methos stands to the side while Caspian shoves the former ruler onto his knees. Kronos takes over once the man's kneeling; he grabs him by the hair and drags him forward.

This particular sort of humiliation has been Kronos's trademark for nearly two centuries now. People are prepared for it, when it comes; the men, newly made slaves, aren't surprised by it when they're lined up and forced to watch.

Methos's fingernails dig jagged cuts into his palms, the way they always do when he's watching Kronos rape the mouth of a conquered leader. He knows the leader's fighting, and he knows just how little difference that makes. Kronos knows the power of his own body, the resilience of his skin, and he's no stranger to pain. He wins this fight every time, not stopping until the man on his knees is choking on his seed.

When it's over, Kronos rights his clothes and nods to Caspian. Caspian calmly slits the man's throat.

Methos licks the blood off his palms once it's over. Kronos glances over at him, eyes narrowed: he knows exactly what Methos is doing. He knows why.

Two hundred years ago it wasn't the leaders on their knees. It used to be Methos who got to open his throat for Kronos's cock, Methos who would choke and scream, bite and beg until Kronos was satisfied. He lived for it. It was better than the fighting. Better than the killing, even though Methos was Death and loved the quiet finality of ending someone's life. Kronos was his brother. It was his _right_.

Cassandra. Cassandra had ruined everything. And Methos had let her. It was his fault, all of it; he'd let her come between them. He'd paid for it in blood and pain and charred skin in the days after her escape; he'd screamed his contrition over a bed of hot cinders, while Kronos cut patterns into his flesh with hot bronze. Sometimes he thinks if he could have scarred from that, Kronos would have forgiven him.

Instead it's this. Watching from the sidelines time after time, while someone else takes what ought to belong to him.

Methos picks out one of the slaves at random, a young man several inches taller than him with angry blue eyes. "You," he snarls. He jerks the young man out of the mass of slaves and drags him back to his tent, shoving him down to the furs. "Struggle and you're dead. Understand?"

The slave understands. He doesn't fight. Methos fucks him, not once, not twice, but all the way through until morning, when even the immortality that runs through his veins can't convince his cock to stand up again. He sends the slave away: naked, bruised, bleeding and torn.

He thinks he sees a flash of black war paint when the flap lifts and the slave goes back to the others, but he's not sure. And he doesn't want to leave the tent only to find out he was wrong.

_-end-_


End file.
